


Ascending Souls

by Strange and Intoxicating -rsa- (strangeandintoxicating)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Character Death, Gen, I am saying fuck you to the gods, Not Romance-based, This is my epilogue to FFXV, Violence, Warnings for blood and gore, but a staunch refusal to let them stay dead, slight horror themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-02-06 08:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12814017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeandintoxicating/pseuds/Strange%20and%20Intoxicating%20-rsa-
Summary: When the dawn rises, it is without their King.The Gods may have broken Noctis, but Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto are still alive and whole—and they refuse to give in without a fight. History has a way of repeating itself, and the hubris of Solheim that created the Tower of Ascending Souls, an abomination against the Gods themselves, may be the only way to save their friend.But the tower is more than just narrow corridors and winding stairs: It is Heaven and Hell, Paradise and Reality, Dreams and Nightmares. Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto will need to come to terms with the past, present, and future if they hope to defeat the Thirteen Kings and reunite Noctis's body and soul.They won’t fail him.Never again.





	1. Prologue: In the Light of the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> So, some of you guys saw my rant about how much I hate the end of FFXV, and I decided to rewrite it. This is basically the equivalent of me saying, "Hey? SE? How about a 113-story tower that I can climb and kick all the asses of the Armiger Kings and Queens? And at the end you let me punch Bahamut in the face?"
> 
> You can see the original post[here](https://rsasai.tumblr.com/post/167741477398/i-hate-the-idea)
> 
> I will warn for the following: Character Death, blood, gore, violence, horror themes, etc. There will be a little romantic content, but it is not the main focus of this story. The main focus of this story is the relationship between Ignis, Prompto, Gladio, and Noctis. We'll also be having others pop in—their relationships will be just as important.

**Ascending Souls**

 

**Prologue: In the Light of the Dawn**

 

As the towering door closed, Ignis felt his breath leave his body. The sound, the resounding thump of what he knew was a goodbye and a promise of finality, hovered in the air. It was the sound of the guillotine sliding its way down to his bared throat.

"Are you sure about this, Iggy?"

"No."

It hurt to say outloud, to admit the truth in the darkness of the night. 

There was a chance he was wrong, a chance that the years of searching and tomb-raiding with Talcott had turned up nothing. Maybe the stories they found, the histories of the Citadel they had uncovered in the ten years of darkness were nothing but that—stories. Fairy tales told to children before bed to frighten them into sleep. It could have been a false narrative made to teach children to be good, to obey the Gods lest they find themselves on the wrong side of the Draconian's wrath.

Hells— it could have even been Ardyn, who had passed away the years, then the decades, then the centuries and millennia by boding his time and waiting for the King of Light.

Waiting for Noctis.

But it seemed so  _ real _ . 

Ignis tried to push down that fear as he, Gladio, and Prompto turned toward the daemons rising from the depths of nothingness to greet them. He could feel the ground quake under his boots and could almost taste the fresh ozone and the unmistakable  _ something _ that had made the Daemons. Scourge. Protozoa. Disease. Taint. Death.

Words meant nothing when that feeling curled in his mouth like rotting meat.

There were many things Ignis had become accustomed to in the darkness. He had accepted his blindness, the cold, the ceaseless hunger. He had even come to accept the rank water where fish floated belly-up. He had long ago accepted the sweet farewell to the rain and the crunch of fresh grass under his boots.

But that feeling, the one that promised daemons waiting just under the surface. 

They had been cursed, just as Ardyn Izunia had been. Just as Noctis —

Ignis had to bite back a cry as he called his daggers to him.

How long would it take? How long would it take for Noctis to become a past tense? A note in history books for scholars to theorize about? A passing fairy tale that parents would whisper to their children?

Would they tell the story of a scared prince who became king too soon? Or would they spin tales about the brave man who sacrificed everything for the dawn? Would it be a story about the beauty of life, or would it be turned upon its head as the story of the Gods blessing Eos with the light of the True King? Would they even mention in the annals of history at how unfair it was to steal the life of a man who had never been given a chance to grow?

How long would they wait until Noctis was no longer Noctis? Until his name was eaten by time? 

What exactly would they say of him? Would they care about his love for fishing or the way he would spend his free time absent-mindedly feeding the stray cats near Galdin Quay? Would they know that his favorite color was sea-foam green and that when he was seven he tried to hide a stray kitten he had snuck into the Citadel? And he was only found out due to one of his tutors inding the small kitten purring inside Noctis's sweater? 

"Whole lot of comfort you are." There was a tiredness to Gladio's voice. It was the sound of a man whose faith was gone and whose purpose was but a whisper of a lie. 

How many lies had they been told?

How many dreams had been shattered?

"Gladio..." Ignis wished that there was something he could have said to the other man, but what could be said to a Shield that was cracked and weathered? A Shield that hadn't protected its King? "How many are there?"

"Six. Maybe more. Let's kill these fucking things."

"Yeah. Let's... let's get this over with." Prompto cocked his gun, the click reverberating in Ignis's ears. "I don't wanna think about what's going on up there. I—I can't. I can't do it."

Ignis turned to Prompto's voice. "Trust me. I swore to him that I would keep him safe. I will be damned if we fail him now. But to do that..."

There was the swing of metal on metal and the squeal of Gladio's blade as the Red Giant began its attack, and Ignis poised himself to begin his own attacks.

"We're letting him go in there—" Prompto's voice quivered.

"I  _ know _ . But have faith."

_ Have faith, even when I have none to give. _

But there was no time to think of this now; they had talked about their plans, their hare-brained scheme that Ignis could only pray would work. Ignis hadn't explained it all, but he hoped that it had been enough for the others to trust him. The years of research began after years of prayers to gods that, Ignis thought, were at best ignorant. He had never assumed the worst, though he should have. 

When Ignis learned about Ardyn, that was the last time he prayed to the Astrals.  

Gladio had snorted out only, "What took you so long?" before turning the insides of a scourge-infected Jabberwocky outward. 

Fighting with the daemons in the dark had become such a common occurrence that when the Red Giants began to scream and smolder, it took a moment for Ignis to realize that this was the way they had behaved so many years ago. This was how they sounded as the sun began to rise. 

But it wasn't a dawn.  _ No _ .

It was an explosion of heat and screaming. Ignis could see the piercing of the light through his scarred and blinded eyes. Even the scant amount of light that was visible was more than Ignis could take, and he found himself on the shattered concrete, clutching his daggers as close as he could. He wanted to curl up, to cover his eyes, to hide from the light.

Death would have been kinder, because when the explosion began to fade... 

Ignis could feel it like regret, taste it like ash, smell it like death.

But maybe.... maybe he was only sleeping.

The Crystal may have taken the daemons, but it could never erase what was left behind.

And in the slowly-rising sun, three shattered men began their ascent to the Throne Room.

 

* * *

 

Prompto couldn't watch. He couldn't do it. 

When the first light of dawn began its ascent into the sky, Prompto couldn't help but drag his feet toward the Citadel. If he concentrated hard enough, Prompto was sure that he could still see the ghosts of his time in the Citadel before everything had happened, before they had left all those years before. It wasn't something that had happened often—it was the King's home and the center of Lucian politics— but each time was memorable in its own way. 

There was the first time he followed Noctis home to play video games; Prompto could remember the wide-eyed panic that twisted through his gut when two of the Kingsglaive rounded on him, pawing at his bag, at his bracelets on his wrist. It felt like yesterday when the unbridled fear and loathing would billow up in his stomach at the mere sight of the the barcode imprinted on his wrist. 

But Noctis had been so cool, and Prompto wanted to be cool, too. So, when Noctis called off the guards, Prompto had been so grateful and had laughed it off with casual disinterest.

But he never thanked Noctis for that. He never thanked Noctis for a lot of things. The ten years of darkness reminded him of that whenever it could. From something as simple to a good meal because of Noctis's fishing all the way to his attempts to make Prompto feel more at home in his own skin, everything his best friend had done had helped him. Even the smallest of things... Noctis had always been there.

It had helped mold him into something more than the shell, the husk of flesh that feared what others thought of him. It was different from the little boy whose parents were too busy to spend time with him or the boy who did just well enough in school to be ignored, just quiet enough to melt into the shadows.

Prompto grew, though. He grew and he changed. He did his best and hoped that one day Noctis would be able to see it. Even when he disappeared into the Crystal, even after the ten years, Prompto knew that he would be able to show his best friend what kind of man he had become.

Or so Prompto had thought.

Prompto wasn't sure what was worse—losing Noctis the first time to the darkness or this...

No, he was sure. This was  _ so _ much worse.

"Gladio.... Prompto.... it may be best if you let me do this. I recommend you don't watch."

But it was already too late, and there was no erasing what Prompto saw. Thirteen weapons ran through Noctis, the bluish halo of their strikes imprinted like permanent ink across the air. Thirteen weapons were driven into Noctis, his body a shattered husk of what it once was. The only physical sword, the sword King Regis once held with such grace and poise, was positioned right through his stomach. Noctis's body was slumped over, forehead resting against the pommel. He almost looked as though he were sleeping.

_ Drip. Drip. _

Prompto couldn't help but to let out a low, pained moan as he turned his back on the sight. Not even that was able to stop the ache from building within his core as he closed his eyes. The images of Noctis upon the throne stayed in his mind like over-exposed film. How had it come to this? 

"We... we shouldn't have let him," Prompto managed through gritted teeth. He could feel the bubbling of vomit pushing up his throat, but he forced himself to swallow it down the same way he swallowed down his fear. "We shouldn't have let him go alone."

"What'd you want us to do? Tie him down? Tell him to give up?" Gladio said. "You think he would have listened to us? Even for a second?"

Gladio was right, and that was what Prompto didn't want to hear. Gladio was usually right, in some way...

"You don't have to say it like  _ that _ ."

Gladio didn't turn away from the sight of Noctis pinned to his throne like a butterfly to a cork board: A beautiful, albeit sad, thing for others to gawk at. 

His death was pointless, fruitless, hopeless.

"Noctis.... he could be—" 

Ignis interrupted. "Can. He  _ can _ be."

Gladio said nothing for a moment, and Prompto almost hoped that he could. It was petty and angry, but Gladio didn't understand. He couldn't understand. 

Gladio was different. 

They all had logically known that Noctis would one day die, that his rule as King would end. Everyone had an expiration date, sure. Ignis had one, Gladio had one, even Prompto knew that one day he would die. 

But even from the beginning, none of them understood quite as intimately as Gladio. It was Gladio's job to be with his King until the end, to follow in his footsteps, to protect him until his dying breath.

But that coldness...

It drove Prompto half-crazy to think about how cold Gladio had become over the years, to the point that sometimes it seemed as though the only people who cared about Noctis were Prompto and Ignis. Gladio had moved on so seamlessly; his new life, his new girl, his plans for a future. Maybe it was petty, but part of Prompto could never wrap his head around the idea that the person who was most bound to Noctis was the one who seemed to be the one who cared the least.

"Ignis—I can do this."

Prompto looked to Gladio, whose hands were at his sides, sword and shield at his feet. The Armiger had stopped working with the rising of the dawn.

No. Prompto didn't want to think about it, instead focusing on the black and gray marble floors, the thick coat of dust that covered everything throughout the once proud Throne Room. This was a place where, once upon a time, Princes became Kings. This was where the Chosen King ascended.

"Let me take him down, Gladio. Then.... you may carry him. I fear I do not have the strength nor coordination."

Listening to them talk about carrying Noctis's body, his  _ dead _ body, made Prompto's stomach flip again. It was more than just his body; it was  _ Noctis _ .

The scraping of boots against marble rang out through the room as both Ignis and Gladio went forward. Prompto couldn't get any closer than he already was, even when he heard Ignis purposely sliding his foot against the tile until it reached the stairs.

"Seventeen, eleven," Ignis whispered. 

"Wha'?" 

But Ignis didn't reply, instead grabbing hold of the furthermost right banister as he began to climb each of the steps. His boots thumping against marble and their breathing was the only sound that echoed through the Throne Room other that the soft patter of droplets hitting the ground below. Prompto didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think at all. 

But when Ignis finally reached Noctis, a soft "Oh, Noct," was enough for Prompto to look back up.

Ignis was gentle with Noctis's body, with prying his father's sword from his stomach. The squelch and the rank scent of iron, stronger than even the smell of daemon's blood, poured through the room.

Prompto didn't turn his head. He didn't look away.

Neither did Gladio, who stood steadfast at the base of the stairs. He stared up at the throne and at Noctis, though Prompto didn't see anything but a stone mask.

The clang of metal against the marble and the shattered breathing from Ignis rang with a note of finality, and Prompto bit down on his lip to stop himself from sobbing.

There was nothing beautiful and gracious about death. There was only pain and suffering compounded by fear, then the unmitigated sense of nothingness.

Death had become so common in the World of Ruin, the world of unending night, that Prompto thought he had become immune to its calls. Prompto had unmasked death for what it was, what it would never be, and yet in the Throne Room of dust and blood he knew that he was nothing but a child hiding from the grim face of reality. 

Prompto looked up at the Crystal, the one that had taken Noctis so long ago and had taken him yet again. The purple stone no longer glowed its effervescent light, no longer sang to the Daemons in the cresting of the dawn. It was dead, just like Noctis. 

Everything had its time to die.

But for Noctis. 

"It's not your time buddy. Not yet."

* * *

 

 

Gladio waited until Ignis was able to move himself out of the way on the stairway to slowly make his way up the stairs, his feet beating a dirge into the red carpet below. He remembered how beautiful they once had been, how much pride the Lucis Caelum family held for the Citadel.  

He had always wondered how it would be possible for Noctis to keep them in such perfect condition when Noctis sometimes wouldn't even brush his teeth without someone nagging him to do so. Noctis had always been the kind of guy who did his best, sure, but there were plenty of times when his best simply wasn't enough. 

And it was always Gladio's job to pull him up, to help him where others wouldn't or couldn't. Some people feared Noctis, feared his magic and his power. But Gladio had never once felt that way, never once desired anything more than to do his best, to do what he promised his father and King Regis.

What he promised Noctis.

What he had failed to do.

A Shield's purpose was not to guide a king, for a king had advisors for that. A Shield's purpose was not to get angry, to scream, to berate. It wasn't his purpose to lie, to fall to pieces, to coddle Noctis.

His job was simple and yet even the title was misleading: Shield.

It was his job to protect the Chosen King, the king that was meant to die. The King that was never born to rule, but to place his throat against the lunette and wait for the guillotine's blade to crash down. How was he supposed to shield a man who was born and bred for death? 

Even his father had it easier: Regis was meant to be strong, to protect the country and the Crystal until a time came where the Chosen King would be born and save them all from the Scourge. 

Gladio never even understood what that even meant; there was no Scourge, not in Insomnia. The Scourge was something that happened in the books and legends, not in the real world. Even as far away as Niflheim and Tenebrae, there were no stories of the Daemons or the Scourge-infected. The position of Oracle wasn't more than a ceremonial title, the Chosen King nothing but a bedtime story. 

But when Noctis was four, that was when it happened. Gladio could remember the hush across the Citadel, the panic, the bright light and the sobbing from the King that echoed louder than Noctis's blood splattering against the throne. 

Gladio didn't understand it then. He had pushed it off into the back of his mind where he didn't need to think, didn't need to wonder. It was a place he didn't visit—not, at least, voluntarily. His nightmares were plagued with whispering ghosts of stories long-ago told, memories like chilling wind and dreams as desperate as last strands of light before the coming storm.

But in the daylight, that was where Gladio prepared. The world had changed and there were whispers about what happened beyond the Wall. There were daemons and Scourge, then, and Gladio had always wondered if another child had been born... would the Wall have stood? Would his father and the people of Insomnia had lived? Would they have been better off?

Training began the night the Crystal glowed bright, and Gladio gripped his too-big training sword until his hands bled. They would heal and become callouses that would allow him to be stronger, but in that moment it just _hurt_. He had to fight through the pain, had to fight through the fear, had to fight through the tears and the rage and the _need_. His goal was not to sacrifice himself at the foot of the throne in defense of his king. His duty was different. The oath he swore was changed.  

__ By sword,  
__ By shield,  
__ By dawn,  
__ By light,  
_ I pledge my honor, my duty, my obedience  
_ __ To the one that will vanquish the night

It had always struck a chord of dissonance with him—obedience? What did obedience have to do with his duty?

His father was never obedient in his duties to King Regis. Clarus could, on the best and worst of days, be King Regis's guiding light or harshest critic. It was the same for his father, and his father's father, as far back into the history of the Lucian and Amicitia histories.

It had been Ignis who found it, the correct oath... Not obedience. It was never meant to be his obedience.

It was meant to be his  _ life _ .

And that was what Gladio always expected, what every Amicitia expected. Yet his oath had been to keep himself quiet, to not question, to simply follow forward and obey without thought or trepidation.

It was easier that way, Gladio knew—turn off his mind, turn off his heart. Build a wall around himself to protect what was left. The little boy who had cried as his hands bled could not exist in the same world that needed him to protect. That little boy, that soft boy, had died.

But when he picked up Noctis, feeling the skin and bones shifting under his hands, Gladio couldn't stop the sob from ripping out of his mouth. It was small—just enough for Gladio to almost pretend as though he hadn't made it at all. He knew the others would never say a word, just as Noctis would never say a word.

What kind of Shield was he.... 

He had failed his King, yes. But it was worse—

He had failed  _ Noctis _ .

Another part of him whispered that Noctis had completed the Prophecy, the one that the Gods had waited for 2000 years for a savior to be born to be sacrificed for their own misgivings. Gladio had done just as the Gods wanted, just as Fate required.

And the Gods were pleased at their handiwork, at the ghosts of twelve swords lingering in the air and Regis's sword at the foot of the throne, under the dead Crystal.

Gladio may have been born a Shield, but he was also born with a brain. He knew why mortals did not cross the Gods. They would live long enough to see their cities burn, their towers shattered, their bodies frozen and crushed, drowned and electrocuted, beaten and left for dead among the rubble. It was their way since Solheim.

The act of rebuilding Insomnia on top of the ashes of what had once been the ruins of the Solheim Empire was done in the grace of the Draconian. It was where the Crystal was given its power, where the Crystal chose its first King and Oracle, where the Gods granted clemency to Eos for their betrayal.

It was fitting that this would be the Crystal's tomb.

"Where?"

Ignis sighed. "To the Atrium." 

Gladio's boots squelched with blood as he carried the body of the Broken King down the steps, cradling Noctis's head to his chest. When was the last time he had carried Noctis like this? It had to have been...

Duscae. When Noctis tried to take on Deadeye on his own.

Part of Gladio wanted to smile at that memory, but all he could do was frown. Noctis always had been loose and fast with his life. He always expected that Gladio would be behind him to keep him safe.

Gladio hadn't, then. 

He hadn't, now.

He wouldn't, again...

He was never supposed to.

"C'mon, Prompto. Let's go." Gladio turned his head back down to stare at the precious cargo in his hands. The light of the sun only accentuated the cracks in Noctis's face, the scars that Gladio knew were from the ring just under the surface of his skin. 

If Gladio lied to himself, if he tried hard enough, he could have pretended that Noctis was just asleep.

Gladio was always good at lying to himself.

* * *

 

 

Ignis tried to not think of Noctis's blood on his hands.

He had already removed his gloves, throwing them to the ground. There was no water, not even access to the resources of the Armiger any longer, and so Ignis did the best he could by rubbing against the front of his jacket. He knew it was messy, that Noctis's blood anywhere on him was like a curse sent directly from the Astrals, but.... He couldn't have it on his hands. 

He couldn't. 

Gladio, no doubt, was the worse off of the two, but he never once complained about the weight of Noctis's body nor the blood Ignis could only imagine running down Noctis's Kingly Raiment and across the front of Gladio's attire. He didn't ask to use the elevator, though Ignis was sure that was because the elevators had died again. Ignis wondered whether or not the lights in the Citadel had died out as well or if it was only the elevators; the silence of the Citadel made Ignis's hair stand on end.

Gladio laid Noctis down across the floor, his brace clinking against the marble. It was an unsettling sound and thought—A King laid out in his own blood, surrounded by the paintings of the Chosen King.

This was not how the King was meant to be welcomed into his home. There were supposed to be black silks and there were meant to be bells to be the beckoning of a new King, to usher in the new sunrise. 

That was how things once were; now, the remnants of the bell tower encased under where the Crystal once slept lay shattered and broken. Ignis couldn't imagine it—the thought too cruel, too spiteful for even his mind to conjure the image. Even just reading about it all those years before still sent a chill right up Ignis's spine, though he bit back the shudder. 

He had to concentrate. He had to focus, though on what Ignis still did not quite know.

"You said.... you said we can save him."

Ignis licked his lips. "I believe so, Prompto."

Perhaps it was a fool's errand that would end in nothing but sadness and more pain, but nothing was worth a try.

"As I told you before, when Talcott and I went searching for information on the dawn and the Chosen King, we found ourselves traversing the ruins of Costlemark. There was a rather extensive library, though translations were a challenge, until we found the room." 

"What room?"

"It was a computer, not too unlike that of our own technology, though far superior. Talcott was familiar enough with it to turn it on, and—it wasn't language. Not in the way that you or I think of language. It was..." 

Ignis hesitated. 

"Go on, Ignis. We believe you," Prompto told him, his voice shaking. "We trust you."

But Ignis did not dare to trust himself; it has been such a peculiar feeling and had it not been for Talcott, Ignis would have assumed it to have been a vivid nightmare that had taken on a mind of its own. 

"Look. You said we could save him, and we believed you. Now, spit it out, Ignis. What do we need to do?"

"I don't know how to explain it other than to say they  _ showed _ me."

There was a pause before Ignis continued, "Those of Solheim—they were far more advanced than us; their use of technology was vastly superior to anything the Niflheim Empire dared to make. Insomnian-made technology was child's play compared to what the people of Solheim created. Buildings that were both magic and machine, skyscrapers that dared to even touch the heavens and go deeper into the soil than even Ifrit or Titan tread. Solheim's hubris was their downfall, for the Gods did not appreciate humanity daring to outshine them." 

"What's with the history lesson, Iggy?" 

"It's the key. The key to unlock the Tower." 

Gladio said nothing for a moment before, "Okay." 

"Okay?" Ignis asked, voice catching on the words.

"Okay," Gladio replied. "You're talking about the Tower of Ascending Souls." 

Ignis's mouth went dry. "How—" 

"I _read_ , Iggy." There was a lilt to Gladio's voice that, had it not been such a serious situation, Ignis would have allowed himself to become insulted over. "You're trying to tell me that we have to climb the Tower of Ascending Souls." 

Prompto finally interrupted, then. "The... sorry. What? I don't get it."

"It's a tower the Solheim Empire built two thousand years ago. They said it was burned to ash by the Infernian's rage." Ignis gave a half-hearted shrug. "It was meant to defy the Gods, or so they assumed." 

"So... Ifrit killed them all?" 

"According to legend. But as we've been learning, not everything in the legends are true." 

"Too right. There is a chance that it is wrong, but..." Ignis closed his eyes. Even in his blindness, he could still make out the pictures the computer had flashed into his mind. He hadn't needed eyes to understand, nor language to listen. "This is our best chance."

"But you haven't explained—" Prompto began, but Ignis raised his hand to silence him. 

"This is where the Infernian had ended one civilization, and is where the Draconian began another. Let it be known that humanity have been subject to not only their own paltry pettiness over the passing of time."

The Gods seemed to take such pleasure in the destruction the wrought, in the deaths of those who were meant to be under their care.

"What Iggy's saying is that we're standing on sacred ground."

"In part, yes. But more importantly, I believe that the tower is still here—under this very Citadel."

Flashes of light. A coat of arms engraved into the marble. Blood filling the inlay. The rising of the Citadel. Shaking walls and crumbling seals. Angry clouds reaching into the heavens. A set of stairs in the center. Blood dripping down each step. A coldness that burns. Pale gray walls. An unending chasm. Wailing of a thousand thousand souls fighting for freedom. 

Around and around. Staircase after staircase.

A pale light in the darkness.

"I saw him there. And yes, before you say anything,  _ yes _ . I  _ saw _ him. Like he was standing in front of me. And when I touched him, he was real. And he was  _ alive _ ."

"Ignis.... I'm not doubting you, but... how?"

" _I don't know._ But I know that if we do not try—" 

"All of this... all of it was for nothing," Prompto whispered.

Ignis did not respond, instead reaching to his utility belt to remove one of his daggers. "To ascend, we must be willing to prove we are worthy."

Ignis could remember each inch of the Atrium. He and Noctis had spent their childhoods cradled within its walls. He knew exactly where the coat of arms was engraved—the twisted skull with gnarling teeth, the curve of its spine, the intricate pattern that looked both unearthly beautiful and ghastly in the light of the moon shining through the windows.

He could not see it any longer, but Ignis would never forget it.

Ignis stepped toward the design, letting the blade rest against his hand. "Bring Noctis here... This is where we will begin. Or so I assume."

"Should we?" Prompto asked, and Ignis gave a brief nod. 

"I don't know how much it will require," Ignis admitted. "I can only assume it is meant to weaken us for the coming battle."

Gladio took a moment to gather up Noctis, attaching his shield to his arm and his sword to his back. "It's gunna be hard to carry him and fight," Gladio admitted as he adjusted Noctis. 

"Would you prefer if I carried him?" Ignis asked. He wondered if Gladio could see the pommel of his dagger shake in his hands.

"He's not heavy. Just... awkward. I got him." 

"I can carry him, too," Prompto replied. "We can take turns. We'll all do it." 

"We will need to depend upon each other if we are to make it up the tower. I don't know how far it will go." Ignis let the blade ghost across his palm. "And I do not know when we will be able to return." 

When... 

But they knew it was not when. 

_ If _ .

"If you come with me, it is at your own peril." Ignis tried to make his voice firm, but he could feel the wavering note at the end.

"You sound like you think we should leave," Gladio said.

"You have your future bride, Gladiolus. And you have the garage and Cindy, Prompto. I wouldn't dare fault you for not wishing to follow me." 

Prompto made a sound that Ignis could not quite place. "I'm coming with you, Iggy. I made a promise to Noctis, too. Y'know?"  

Gladio took only a moment longer. "Let's just do this—whatever _it_ is."  

Ignis nodded. "Then, if you would? Gentleman?"  

Ignis raised the dagger in a quick slash to his hand before passing the blade to Prompto, who grunted before passing it to Gladio. He held his hand like a chalice. "When you are ready?"

"Okay. Let's do this."

"Got nothing to lose."

"For Noctis," Ignis whispered as he felt warm, sticky blood drip through his fingers and onto the skull below. "We will save you, I swear it."

And for a second time, the Citadel was engulfed within blinding light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured it would be better to wait and finish the chapter than post it in pieces. I hope you guys like it, and if you see any errors let me know. 
> 
> Think of this story as a puzzle that we'll be slowly sorting through. I'm a sucker for background, lore, and history. So.... I decided to make some of my own.

_ Thousands of years ago, before the age of man, it was the age of the Gods. It was an age of absolutes: Absolute beauty, absolute power, absolute destruction. Humans were nothing but specks of dust in the eyes of the Gods, beholden to their powers and their strength. Humans knew and revered with dutiful humbleness, and understood that the power of Gods was not meant for their hands to touch. _

_ Yet they tried. They wished to be more than humans, more than mere mortals. They wished for a dream, ever fleeting and fragile, but what they received was nothing but the ashes of their hubris. Their arrogance was their sin, their fate that of annihilation. _

_ Or so they have said. _

_ Blessed are those who cower, for they understand the meaning of Holy Retribution. _

 

 

* * *

Ignis opened his eyes and he could  _ see _ .

It wasn't the dim light of the rising dawn, the burning of purples across his lids as he promised the Kings of Lucis anything they wanted from him in exchange for the power to protect Noctis. It wasn't even the faint wisps of dreams that faded from his memory when he woke, the only reminder that once, long ago, he had been able to see in more than just his deepest dreams.

No. Ignis knew with a sort of clarity that stabbed deep into his bones what this was. This was sight. Real sight.

"By the gods." Hands, covered in blood. Hands, scarred. Hands, battered and slashed open across the palm.

"The gods have a cruel sense of humor."

Ignis turned his head toward the voice, blinking in astonishment for a moment as he stared at Gladio and—oh.

"Noct..."

It was better that he hadn't seen Noctis before, when he had taken the time to pull the sword from Noctis's belly. He was lucky, even now, that the darkness of his shirt hit the redness. It didn't, however, hide the unnatural wetness or the dribbles of blood from his fingertips down to the stone below.

There was nothing beautiful in death; nothing that was more beautiful than life.

This was why he had to save Noctis. This was why he had promised his friends that they would be able to right the wrongs and to change the stars. Because, Ignis knew, he could  _ see _ and yet all he wanted to do was claw out his own eyes so that he could forget. Just for a moment, Ignis wished that he was blind again.

"Can you see me, Iggy?"

Ignis nodded, mute, as Gladio adjusted the still very dead body of their dearest friend within his arms.

"That's probably the machines—"

It was so peculiar how Ignis could see everything, just as though he had never been blinded before. The perfect coloration, the perfect saturation, the perfect sparkle and shine. "Absolutely the machines," Ignis confirmed, "or whatever this may be. It's the same as it was in Costlemark."

Prompto made a sound then, and it took a moment for Ignis to pull his sight away from Noctis's corpse. Gods, a corpse. None of this was right, none of this was possible. Still, Ignis found his gaze drifting back toward his childhood friend with every word. He almost felt sorry for Prompto, who must have assumed Ignis was ignoring him. He wasn't trying to, truly.

"You mean that this is just, what? An illusion? Mechanics?"

"The history books were never really detailed on exactly what the Tower was. Just that it, well,  _ was. _ It shouldn't even exist anymore." Gladio grunted as he adjusted Noctis within his arms.

Ignis reached down and rubbed his hands against his jacket, but no matter how much he wiped he could feel that sticky, warm blood on his hands. It was exactly like the blood pooling underneath Noctis now.

It would have been better to have been blind.

"I guess we'll just figure it out as we go. Right, big guy?"

Ignis looked away from the blood as it began to sluggishly trail down from the cuff of Noctis's shirt and across the palm before sliding its way down his middle finger.

"Ignis?"

There was no salvation in his sight, no celebration.

This was cursed, just as everything else was.

"What do we do, Ignis?"

Ignis closed his eyes and thought of the vision, the clearest thing he had seen since watching Noctis's face burn away through his own terrified screams. It was the light, the dazzling light of the mechanics under the sigil activation and now....

Ignis looked around the room, noting nothing but the decade of dust and the staleness of time.  Where was he supposed to go? What were they supposed to do?

"I..."

_ I don't know.  _

That was what Ignis wanted to say. He wanted to explain that this had to have been just a cruel nightmare and that he would wake at any moment to see the dawn breaking in his old apartment's bedroom window. He would be able to look out the window and to see Insomnia and its beauty as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes before making himself a cup of coffee and settling in to watch the sun fully rise over the Eastern Wall. He would take a shower and get ready, then head over to Noctis's apartment. He7d fight to pull the errant prince out of bed, but he would manage it. He always did.

But that was ten years ago, and times had changed. There were no chances for Ignis to believe it was a nightmare, not when Noctis needed him to focus.

But it didn't answer the question Ignis most craved.

"Blessed are those who cower, for they understand the meaning of Holy Retribution."

Ignis's mouth ran dry as he slowly turned toward the voice, a voice he had heard so many years more.

"Messenger Gentiana."

It looked like her, that much Ignis knew—the black hair and the fringe cut with perfect straightness. Her ornamental robes moved around her as though the air itself did not wish to disturb her. There was a coldness to her that Ignis know now was only what belied her true face that hid beneath the beautiful and human skin. She was not a messenger of the Gods or of the Oracle, but a Goddess who wore the face of the dead.

It was comforting in the same way pulling an icicle out of a throat felt, no doubt.

However, Ignis noticed as he pulled into a straight-backed pose that the body of Gentiana was just a little different, a little  _ off _ .

It was her eyes. In the hundreds of photos Prompto had taken all those years before, never once had Ignis ever seen the Goddess's eyes. But now, stark like leaves frozen in time, he could see them with a clarity that flipped Ignis's stomach on itself.

Ignis tried to summon the dagger from his hip into his hand, but instead he could only grip onto his free dagger just a little tighter. The Armiger didn't work anymore because Noctis was  _dead._

"No, though you may refer to me as such if it brings you comfort."

"So—what? You're wearing Gentiana's face?" Prompto asked. He was reaching slowly toward his gun holster, but Ignis knew that it was futile. Whether or not it was Gentiana or not meant little. Prompto would never be able to shoot the Goddess, even if he had wanted to. No matter how much they all wanted to.

Gladio was the only one who had yet to move from his spot over the sigil. Ignis wished he had moved, at least a little. The puddle of blood near his feet was too big for a human to live after losing. It was all too much.

"Consider me your.... guide." Gentiana turned toward the exit of the room, back towards the Throne Room. Her robes dipped through the blood and dragged it along with her, a macabre scene of lights glistening against streaks of blood.

"Guys..."

"Prompto," Gladio warned as he adjusted Noctis in his arms. "Just...."

"Yeah. I get you. Anything in those books about exactly what's going on? What we gotta do?"

Ignis watched the slow-moving figure of Gentiana, or what had the face of Gentiana, as they followed behind her. Each step toward the Throne Room sent a cold sweat racing down his spine, but his feet trudged forward and through the streaks of a bloody red carpet thrown out just for them.

"Lots of theories about it. Mostly people thought it was a com—"

"Mere mortals. Given the choice between technology and the magic of Gods, he has long ago chosen his path. The Tower of Ascending Souls is but a chalice to nurse the spirits between life and death, to protect them from the darkness of the night." Gentiana's voice carried through the halls, the portraits of yore proclaiming the present staring out at them in judgement. "A computer. A spirit. A goddess. Call me what you wish. It is my responsibility to accompany you upward until you understand your purpose."

"Our.... purpose?" Prompto asked. "What'dya mean 'purpose'?"

"Humans. Fickle and so easily troubled over their worth." It was't an accusation so much as a comment, but that was almost worse for Ignis. The inhuman tone, the coldness that seemed so much worse than Shiva's icy timbre, made Ignis's teeth clench as he followed behind their guide. "Your questions shall be answered as you climb."

"Uh, climb? Look, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get Noct back. He's my best friend, but you guys still haven't told me what the hell is going on."

"The Tower of Ascending Souls is the platform between life and death. It will grant you what you seek, for a price."

"Well,  _ that's _ comforting," Prompto deadpanned.

"It shouldn't be."

Ignis looked at the twitch making its way up Prompto's mouth all the way to his forehead, then turned to Gladio.  Gladio and, of course, Noctis.

He looked away.

"Prompto, just follow and be quiet. We'll explain as we go."

Ignis wanted to interrupt, to give a better explanation to Prompto, but in truth he knew little more than what he had said before. The picture of Noctis, the alive Noctis that Costlemark Tower had promised him, had been the sole reason for his decision to climb in the first place. If it had been for any other person or in any other situation, Ignis would never had dared to do something without knowing ever facet of the potential risks.

As it was, Noctis's blood led the way through the corridor and back up towards the Throne Room.  However, when they reached the doors, there was something off, something different. It wasn't just the sun, nor the damage that a decade and the attack upon the Citadel.

No. The door itself looked different. Gone were the black and gold marbled doors, the winding metal door knobs or the ornate filigree. Instead it was simply a wooden door with no lock, no key, no knobs.

"You shall find what you seek above."

"How dangerous is it?"

Gentiana rested her hand against the pale wood, her black nails raking across the surface, leaving pale grooves where her fingers had touched.

"You shall meet in peace at the dawn, should your King be saved. One hundred thirteen flights you shall climb, and one hundred thirteen souls you shall release from their prisons. Do so, and you may have your King."

Ignis couldn't stop himself from voicing the next question: "Release?" There had been nothing on what he was meant to do when arriving at the Tower. Of course, Ignis had assumed that stairs would be involved, that climbing staircase upon staircase would be tantamount to punishment in exchange for Noctis.

But releasing souls?

Gentiana smiled then, a look that wholly looked utterly  _ wrong _ upon the Goddess's features. "Yes, Ignis Scientia. To free their souls is your duty. One hundred thirteen Kings and Queens have given their power unto the Ring. Their service has been completed, and it is time for them to know peace. Bring them salvation through the razor's edge of your blade, and only then shall your King be free."

"So... you want us to kill them? Kill all of the kings?" Gladio tightened his hold on Noctis's body, moving him just the slightest away from where the woman stood. It didn't matter that his body was long dead, not when the body of a Goddess with the voice of a mystery spoke of regicide.

"They are dead," Gentiana stated simply. "But their stories are not so. Listen to them and listen to me. Free them from their torment. Only then shall they know peace, and shall you know redemption."

Redemption—what did Gentiana, or whatever had taken her face, know of redemption? And how dare she suggest that they had anything to need redeeming for?

Except...

"You have let your king die. You have much to redeem yourselves for in the eyes of the Gods and in the eyes of your King."

Ignis wanted to fight back against the words, and he could very well see that the other two wanted to very much do the same.

It was a surprise when it was Gladio who finally responded by adjusting Noctis's corpse in his arms, shielding him from the sunlight with his chest. "Let's just do this. We're already here. We already summoned her. It's time to go—unless you're chickening out on me."

"Nuh uh. Not chickening out."

"You know better."

"Thought so. Lady, if you aren't going to get the doors then let me." Gladio went to adjust Noctis again, but the woman only stepped to the side, the bottom of her robes dragging across Gladio's boots. She did not touch the door again, but allowed her hand to hover just at the surface for a moment before she blinked out like a shooting star.

"I really don't like this."

"Neither do I, Prompto. But we do what we must. For Noctis."

"Yeah, for Noctis."

Ignis edged forward and slowly, with sweaty palms and shaking fingers, pressed against the wood.

* * *

 

Prompto hadn't known what to have expected, but what he saw definitely wasn't it.

Emptiness. No floors, no walls, no ceilings. In the absence of matter was the great, open space of the never-ending skies. Below him was just a blanket of nebulas and constellations.  And above—

"Is that.... the Crystal?"

Prompto could do nothing but stare at the Crystal and its glowing magic, its bright and beautiful streams of magic that extended with pale purple tendrils like arms searching for a lover. He wanted to turn and look at his friends, at Noctis's corpse in Gladio's arms, but the Crystal wanted him to look, and he was absolutely powerless in its thrall.

And it was beautiful, in the same way that Ramuh and Shiva and Leviathan were beautiful. A fierceness and terrifying inhumanness, like Gods whispering their promises through the silence.

"I believe so. I think... this is the birth of the Star."

The Crystal was small, so insignificant in the wide maze of the galaxy, but it shone like the dawn as it raced through the skies.

_ The magic of the Crystal is as old as Eos itself. Created from the fire of a supernova, the magic within yearned for a place of its own, one that it could nurture and consider home. _

"You guys hear that?" It sounded like Gentiana, but... 

"I think it's the Tower."

It was hard for Prompto to wrap his mind around, but after knowing Noctis and living through the ten years of darkness, there was little else he didn't believe in.

_ The Crystal roamed the universe in search of a place, uninhabited by life, to plant its seeds and flourish. A place of nothing in which it could create a beautiful something. _

Prompto nearly gasped as the lights around them soared above and below as they moved through space and time, and now there it was—round and small, covered in hot ash and lava. Nothing lived upon its darkened surface, and nothing could.

Yet the Crystal did not see it as so, and the Crystal began its descent towards the planet.

"That's Eos."

"I.... I would assume so."

"Dude... Are we watching the birth of Eos?"

"Yeah, Prom. I think we are."

Prompto could not look away as the Crystal hit Eos. The lights were blinding but Prompto could not look away as the fires engulfed the Crystal and tore at its black cocoon, allowing the magic to come seeping forth in a rush of soft, glowing purple and blue.

_ Then the Gods came. _

The Crystal cracked open and instead of the soft escape of magic it was an explosion of color and sound and voice. 

_ Six gods, ready to create a perfect utopia for themselves, came forth with their magic and their resolve. Each one had their own desires, their own plans, and yet they were a team. They were unity. Eos was ready for them. _

_ But they were not ready for Eos. _

The earth chilled and the dust settled. The rains began, and the purple light became the atmosphere, became the oceans, became the organisms that took on a life of its own. It was watching millions upon millions of years in every single breathe, as time sped up and Eos  _ flourished _ . Up from nothing came the trees and the grass, the smallest of cells began their ascension toward greater, more majestic things. The insects, the birds, the fish, the mammals.

The humans.

_ Humanity submitted to their Gods with absolute reverence and absolute fear. They built alters of stone and wood and bone, giving the Gods what they wished for in the hopes that the Gods would grant them clemency. They were not perfect, not as the Gods were. Their humanness, their mortality and choice, was their greatest asset and their biggest weakness. _

"Of course they would blame their screw ups on us," Gladio whispered. "Not like we asked for any of this."

But the voice continued on, and the scenes around them slowly began to morph into a small group of huddling humans, their skin blue and teeth chattering. Around them fell snow, the Goddess above them staring down with disdain. Next to her, flying far above was another figure that Prompto knew... he knew it far too well.

"Shiva and Bahamut."

_ She hated them, the humans. Their weakness was insult to her. The only one who hated them more was the Draconian. _

"Wait. Wait. What? It was Ifrit. He burned down Solheim, the created the Scourge. What the hell is going on?"

Prompto expected the voice to continue, but he was surprised to hear Gladio, instead. "No, Prompto. Not Ifrit. Sure, Ifrit burned down Solheim, but before that..."

Prompto turned towards Gladio, staring at his friend with wide eyes. "Dude. Yeah. Ifrit. We just  _ killed  _ Ifrit. Big guy? On fire? Not like two hours ago, man. Big bad guy. Very big bad guy."

Gladio shook his head. "It was the Draconian. Bahamut. Shiva and Bahamut did not care for humanity. Not at first."

"Well... how would  _ you _ know?"

"Because I  _ read _ , Prompto. The hell you think? It's simple history. What did you do—sleep through all your classes?"

Prompto felt his ears heat up as he turned back to the scene before him. It was impossible to look at Gladio right at that moment, not when he had Noctis in his arms.

"Sorry, I went to  _ public _ school... that's not what they taught us." Prompto watched the people as they slowly froze to death and Shiva's massive corpse floated above, lazily rubbing her fingers together to create ice. "I used to sit with Noctis, y'know," Prompto finally managed to whisper as a long-bearded man below the goddess let out a shuddering breath before being silenced forever. How could skin even be that blue? "He said that history was a waste of time... What's the point in listening to things you can't prove?"

But now he could understand what Noctis really meant. Just like how Ardyn Izunia was erased from the history books, so too was the truth about the Gods.

As two young children next to the dead man began to take in their death's rattle, then came Ifrit. Then came fire, and warmth, and compassion.

_ The Gods cared not for the humans and their flawed attempts at life, but Ifrit took pity upon the humans. He granted them the gift of fire, and with that gift they began to change. They began to grow once again. _

It was amazing the way Ifrit melted the ice, leaving a path of water in his wake. He was gentle with the humans, never daring to hurt them. Though he was fire, he was life. He was warmth. He was... almost human. He was so much smaller than the other Gods, but in the palms of his hands he offered life. 

Prompto couldn't look away as the scene around them began to change as Ifrit led the humans towards the sea, towards a place that Prompto  _ knew _ and yet—it couldn't be. It couldn't.... right?

"Is that... Insomnia?"

"I think... I think that's _Solheim_."

It started as a collection of huts and morphed quickly into a thing of beauty. The buildings grew into the sky and touched the clouds. Vehicles zoomed through the skies. People seemingly  _ flew _ through the air as though carried upon invisible wings. Electricity and lights flashed, and their civilization only seemed to grow bigger and louder.

And in the center of it all was an alter of a twisted skull and gnarled teeth, a wing below and a flower blooming through its jaw.

_ The Infernian led the humans toward the Crystal. They built a temple around it, their most sacred and holy of things. They followed Ifrit and began to change the world, began to make the God's dream into a reality. He may have been only one god, easily bested on his own and overpowered by his five companions. But he was smart and kind, and tied to the creatures of Eos in a way which no other was. Titan, Leviathan, and Ramuh followed in his footsteps. They assumed his connection was because their birth was in the fire of a supernova, that he was far more powerful than they were. Even Shiva warmed her icy heart to the Infernian, but Ifrit knew what the others did not. _

_ Etro. _

"Etro?"

Neither Ignis nor Gladio responded, but the voice continued without pause.

_ The true Goddess of the Light. The Goddess of the Dawn and the Dusk. Life and death. Rebirth and return. She has long been forgotten, but not by choice. _

Prompto may not have been good with history, but he knew enough to know that the scene played out before him was something that no history book had ever written down. Etro—that wasn't even a word Prompto knew, and from the silence of Ignis and Gladio, it was something new for them, too.

They continued to watch as the sky grew dark and light, as the balance of Eos followed it in a synchronicity that was so simple and elegant, never once wavering.

Until it did.

"Is that... my word. That's the Meteor."

It couldn't have been anything else, Prompto knew. It crested the sky and began to fall—and it was Titan who caught it within his arms. It was beautiful and terrifying, the way that the Gods always were whenever Prompto saw them. It was in their inhuman size, in their strength, in their power. The grounds around the exploded, but the damage was nothing compared to what it should have been, what it was meant to have been.

_ The Hexatheon believed it as a sign of Etro, that their bickering and foolishness was to be punished if it continued on any further. They could not upset their mother, the Goddess who had entrusted their Crystal to Eos. So Titan accepted the burden of the Meteor to save those below. His eternal sleep was his gift. _

"And then there were five," Gladio whispered.

The grounds around them moved as the scene played out, as the sky pinned and the meteor began its descent. It handed with a power of a bomb, but when the ash settled Titan still stood, the meteor's weight against his shoulders as he held the Meteor within his hands.

But it was not just a ball of flames and smoldering rock—from within there was something else, and like an egg the meteor cracked open and out spilled the darkness. Cloying, choking, killing. Out came the evil in droves as it broke free from the confines of the meteor, and quickly it multiplied.

_ Daemons. Those of elsewhere, seeking a somewhere to call home. Seeking a planet not touched by their own darkness, a planet that could not fight back as it fed. It was but a virus that infected anything, everything, within its path. The Gods had no answers to the gift of annihilation bestowed upon them by Etro. Bahamut deemed it the wrath of Etro for allowing the humans to defy the stars, to believe themselves as equals. Their technology was blasphemy to magic—their buildings touched the skies and brought shame to Etro. And so.... _

"They waged war against one another." 

Prompto watched in horror as the gods turned against one another, as the grounds became their battlefields and cities burned around them in raging infernos. The buildings melted and the humans screamed and choked upon the smoke, for fire was what had given them power and now it was the only thing that burned the Starscourge from them.

_ Fire purifies in the eyes of the Gods. But a human sees it as annihilation. _

"You're trying to tell us that Ifrit what? Was trying to save Solheim? That he burned an entire civilization to the ground because he  _ had _ to?"

Instead of answering, the scenes changed and it was the Rock of Ravatogh—Bahamut and Ifrit above. Prompto knew the history, knew that the Gods defeated Ifrit at the Rock of Ravatogh and threw his corpse into the volcano below. He knew it, but...

What they watched was so very different. A broken and battered body, yes—but no fight to the death, no war of attrition. It was the burned corpse of a sobbing God, more human than Prompto imagined a God could ever be.

He remembered the way Ifrit had looked only hours before, how his limbs had lost their color, how the S courge had eaten its way through him like an never-ending virus. This body, though—it was cut and wounded, but there was no Scourge. There was nothing but living tissue and tears.

"He... he didn't bring the Starscourge." Gladio's words sounded hollow, and Prompto wondered why. It was shocking, yes, but.... why was it important? It wasn't as if any of this changed a single damn thing. Insomnia still fell. The darkness still came. Noct still died.

Who cared that the history books were wrong? What did it matter?

Still, an unsettling feeling rolled in Prompto's stomach as he watched Bahamut throw Ifrit's corpse into the volcano below. He watched as Shiva arrived, screaming and sobbing as she tried to reach into the volcano, only pulling back when the skies turned dark and the thunder began to echo through the skies.

"I guess not."

Prompto looked to both Gladio and Ignis. He wanted to ask what was wrong, why they both looked so somber, but the voice of Gentiana rang through his head again.

_ You have seen where the path has led. It is now time to continue your journey. Follow the stairs up, and you shall understand your purpose. _

"All I want to do is save my friend." Prompto watched as the scene before him faded away, leaving the ghost of two thousand years ago only a memory. "Let's just do what we need to do and get Noctis back. I know you guys care about this history crap, but we're not here for that. We're here for Noct." Prompto cursed himself as his voice wavered for a moment before continuing, "Where are the stairs?"

"There. At the base of the throne."

Prompto looked up, trying his best to avoid looking at the place where they had dragged Noctis's body down from just a little while before. Just under the throne was a small door that Prompto had never seen—something that was carved from the same pale wood that had taken then place of the Throne Room's doors. It was missing a door knob, just as the other had.

"I guess... we climb?" Prompto wiped his hands on his jacket before adjusting the collar. "Not much else we can do, right?"

"Prompto's right. We go forward. We mustn't look back. The past is the past. We live in the present and we strive for the future."

Prompto expected Gladio to say something, anything, but Ignis's words were only met with silence. 

Instead, Gladio walked forward and pushed the door open with the heel of his boot, making his way into the chamber below the Throne.

Prompto followed.

 

* * *

 

It didn't make sense.

Nothing really made sense.

Gladio knew the Throne Room like the back of his hand; he had played inside it since he was a little boy. He had presented himself to the King a hundred times, had listened to speeches from his father on the importance of the Amicitia line as he stood directly below the dais of the throne. Long days of staring out the windows during never-ending droning had given Gladio an understand of the sky and of what was above and below them.

There was no room above the Throne Room. The only thing above was the sky.

But here they were, and here they climbed.

It reminded Gladio hauntingly like another place of Solheim origin—Costlemark Tower. Gladio had hated that Tower, the way it inverted upon itself down into the ground. He had lived in Insomnia for long enough to know what technology could do, and had seen Niflheim and the menace they had created by trying to use power that was not their to keep.

Gladio wasn't superstitious. He was pragmatic to a fault, which is why he knew that nothing good could ever come from digging a hole over sixty floors down into the earth. It was the same pragmatism that told him that climbing a tower to the heavens was certainly no better.

But still, he did it.

He did it without question, without wondering, without even stopping or a moment to think of the consequences. A little part inside his head was screaming for him to stop for just a moment so that he could comprehend exactly what he needed to do, but his legs were faster than his mind. His legs knew they wanted to climb.

So, he did.

It was almost surreal how silent the climb was, how perfectly peaceful and calm the set of stairs were for him. It was a simple spiral, one that continued up in a slow, winding motion. The steps themselves were barely steps at all, just a long slow ascent towards... nothing. It was impossible to see what was at the top, or even how far they had already climbed. The center of the spiral was just metal—no way to look down or up.

"How long do you think it is?" Prompto asked from ahead. The man had his pistol drawn, waiting for something to attack. They had to have been walking for at least a half an hour up the winding staircase and hadn't seen anything g living or dead.

"Dunno. Who knows?" There weren't any marks on the walls, no way to be able to tell how far they had come. Gladio had tried to count each stair, but he had lost himself the first time Noctis's body had begun to slip from his hands.

"You want to switch?" Prompto asked, eying the load in his arms.

Gladio grunted and lifted up Noctis higher. "This is nothing. He's practically skin and bones. The tent weighed more than him." In all honesty, it was more the shield, but... what kind of Shield would he be without it?

Gladio wondered, not for the first time, how Noctis had been able to push himself forward when he woke from the Crystal. He realized it only after he had touched Noctis that there was almost nothing of muscle left. They had atrophied over the ten years he had spent in the Crystal. It had to have been the magic rolling under his skin, the same magic that was slowly eating away at his life. That was the only thing that had given Noctis power. His body.... no normal person would have been able to walk, let alone fought against the near-impervious daemons, without the magic of the Crystal.

Just another reminder of how he had failed Noctis. He had always been far too harsh on his friend, hoping that it would be enough to spur his future king on further, to get him to complete feats that others thought impossible from him.

Despite all of the doubt Gladio had felt, Noctis had been right. He had always been right, even in his fear. Just another reason for sorrow, another thing to add to the constantly growing list of failures Gladio had a hand in causing. Gladio carried his burdens within his arms and pushed forward. It was a weight that was familiar. The burn in his legs was familiar, too.

"If you need to rest, let us know. There's no shame in needing a moment."

Gladio glanced at Ignis, who had removed his jacket and tied it around his waist. It was so funny because it was just so  _ unlike _ the Ignis Gladio knew since they had begun training together as teenagers. They had never been particularly close, both having interests that rarely ever crossed paths unless it had to do with Noctis. That or fighting, both of which they had grown accustomed to thinking of as also being almost interchangeable with Noctis.

It was strange to look at Ignis and to see the man pointedly looking back, especially after everything that had happened in Altissia, when Ignis had—well. When Ignis had done what he had done.

The evidence stood stark against Ignis's hand, where the ring had burned right down into the bone.

Gladio had wondered, more than once, what exactly had happened that day. It had been too fresh after Altissia and Tenebrae, and after Noctis was gone it was kind of a moot point. Bringing up old wounds wasn't Gladio's forte; burying them was much, much easier and typically more effective. What was the point in knowing when what was done was already done?

"The past is in the past." Just like Prompto said about the Astrals and their war. It wasn't important anymore. Nothing was important except getting to the top of the Tower of Ascending Souls and saving Noctis.

Saving Noctis.

Gladio choked back words that wanted to climb up from the back of his throat, instead focusing on each step forward. The thrum of his boots matched the beat of his heart, and it was so much easier to focus on that then actual thoughts.  Thoughts were dangerous. Thoughts made it easier to make mistakes, to do things he wasn't supposed to do. Sometimes, Gladio knew, that free will was far less appealing that the idea of it.

Who could deny that free will seemed so pleasing, so easy until it was granted? Humans were fickle, and Gladio knew it better than almost anyone else. He had been raised to follow orders, to believe what he was told. He was taught not to question those above him but to question himself. Why did he think the way he did? Why did he try to see things from another way?

The gods had needed Noctis dead, needed his life in exchange to destroy the Starscourge, and Noctis had given it willingly and, without compunction, Gladio had let him.

Gladio hoisted Noctis up a little more, avoiding the chance to look down into the face of his fallen King.

He should have stopped them from doing this. He should have followed orders given to him by his king, should have allowed Noctis to die. By trying this, yeah.... there was a chance he could save Noctis, could bring him back from the dead. 

But even if the stories of the gods were wrong, that Ifrit had not burned Solheim to the ground in vengeance, it did not mean that the gods were not wrathful and desiring of atonement.

Waking the Chosen King from his eternal slumber? Purposely spitting in the eyes of the gods? It was asking for trouble. Gladio knew that better than nearly anyone else—he could still remember Gilgamesh in Taelpar Crag. That was a man who had failed his king. Who was the Founder King, and how had his Shield failed him? Was it the same was that Gladio had failed Noctis? 

So little was known of the Founder King anyway, though Gladio had traced through all of his books to find bits and pieces. It was never enough to make a full story, to explain everything. It was touched by time and by human hands.

History was written by the victors, but more importantly it was written by the living.

Solheim had been proof of that.

"Hey... Uh. So, what that thing said, the computer. Whatever it is. It said that, uh, that there was another Goddess. Right?"

Ignis replied after a moment. "Yes. It said many things, of which makes little sense." 

Ignis was the only other person who could understand what was running through Gladio's mind. They had the same tutors, the same books, the same history told to them. To Prompto, well, history wasn't important. But it was what had led Gladio and Ignis toward their duties. Their whole lives had been spent in service to the Crown. The crown has been in service to the history of the line of Lucis.

"You know.... Bahamut is the God of Lucis. He was the one who gave us the Crystal. Right?"

Ignis only hummed in agreement. 

"I mean, it was him. He was the one who helped us with Ifrit, with killing him. He was the one, the one who told Noctis about... about all of this. Wasn't it?"

Ignis stopped walking for a moment, but it was Prompto who finally answered. "Yeah. That's what Noct said. He said that it was Bahamut who told him, y'know. About what he had to do."

Gladio nodded his head. "He told Noct he needed to die. There wasn't anything we could have done. We were just.... we were all following orders."

Following orders. How could Gladio even force those words from his own mouth? It was so simple to follow orders, but when it meant that Noctis had to die—those weren't orders to follow. 

But he had followed them, and now look where they were.

"I think it best we just continue onward. It no longer matters, as long as we continue to ascend."

Gladio wanted to fight, wanted to tell Ignis that it did matter, that if Bahamut had kept the truth of Solheim from the world for centuries, then what else had they lied about? What else was hidden below the surface? 

Instead, he nodded and continue onward, further and further up an unending flight of stairs.

Or, at least, that was what Gladio assumed. He assumed that the stairs would just continue on and on with no other pathway. It was just a staircase—nothing special about it if he didn't count the fact that it hadn't been there before.

That was not, however, how it ended up being.

Gladio would have preferred the mindless continuation up an unending flight of stairs to the numbness that suddenly overtook his entire body, as if he was frozen in place. He tried to reach out to grab Prompto's shoulder or turn to warn Ignis to tell the man to stop moving, but it was all for naught—he could do nothing at all because what he saw before him was no longer the stairs he had become accustomed to over their climb. 

It was a chunk of carved marble set into the ground, surrounded by fire. The Crystal glowed in its heat, blood spreading across the carved marble from slit palms. A man and woman sat, dazed and wounded, in the midst of the flames until the sky darkened as War rained upon them.

"You've got to be shitting me."

Gladio was surprised that though his limbs no longer seems to function, his mouth still could. And his eyes and brain were also functioning perfectly fine as well. 

But still, it was difficult to believe what he was seeing with his own eyes. He had never really believed the tales that the Draconian had gathered the survivors of upon his wings and flew them to safety. But it was a difficult thing to see the Draconian pick up a human with the palm of his hand, scrutinizing him with guarded blue eyes.

In his other hand was the sobbing woman, clutching the remnants of a staff. Oh—no. It was not a staff.

It was a charred bone, broken in two.

_ The pact between the first King, the Oracle, and the Draconian. The moment in which humans were granted the power of magic and the Crystal, though it was to be for only one generation. The magic in them was to manifest, and their children would be their successors. Their children would purge the Star of its scourge and end the darkness. The King of the Wise, he was called. The father of the Founder King, the king crowned by the Gods, not for his blood but for his silence. His magic was weak, but in him would sire the True King. _

He looked familiar. He looked like the man who Gladio had stared at with horror and revulsion not a few hours before. It was in the jaw, in the nose, in the way his fair curled at the ends. The color was dark like midnight, but his eyes were bright like ice. It wasn't the same, not identical, but it was enough to send a cold chill right up Gladio's spine.

"Is that... Ardyn?"

Oh. Good. It wasn't just him who thought it.

"I thought so too, Prompto. Looks a lot like him. But, I dunno... Something's off."

"Remember what Noctis said—Ardyn was meant to be the King of Light. He was abandoned by the Crystal for his misdeeds and transgressions. The man before us must be his father."

But how was that possible? It was something that had puzzled Gladio since childhood—the line of succession was so murky, the facts so unclear, the further in time they went back. The Founder King was the first king of Lucis, and yet he was not. He was the first child born of magic, but not the first King.

"There once lived a man, born to a mortal but blessed with powers divine. Conjuring a collection of glaives he dispelled the darkness plaguing our star. As a reward for his efforts, the god granted him a holy Stone—the Crystal, which he was to guard at all costs, for it would one day choose a King to see us through the coming disaster and lead us to salvation." Gladio was surprised that he could still remember the words. He never was really good with remembering quotes, but it was the first book he read, the first thing he had believed. It was everything his family believed. Everything he was meant to become.

But this man... There seemed to be nothing magical about him at all. He seemed to be nothing but a terrified man, lost and alone within the world.

"Who was he?"

_ He was simply a man. A simple man who woke to find his country burning. Accepting the Draconian, he offered himself as vessel to the Gods so they could cure the Scourge. _

"And her?" 

_ She was simply a woman. A simple woman who woke to find her temple aflame. Accepting the Draconian, she offered herself to the Gods as the conduit between man and immortal. _

But Gladio could not see an offering—he could see a God holding them within the palm of his hand, far up in the air, as Solheim burned before them. He could see their sorrow, their horror, their fear. The Crystal lay at the base of the Draconian's feet and with it.... the Mark of Etro, filled with blood.

"The Lucis Caelum line wasn't born with magic. It was given to them. It could have been given to anyone. They were just... they were just unlucky."

Gladio could have laughed at that—just unlucky. Had it just been unluckiness that made his ancestor swear an oath for the Amicitia family to become shields? Was it unluckiness that Ardyn had been made into a monster? That he had become tainted? Was it unluckiness that allowed the Meteor to fall?

"Everything with the planet seems unlucky." Gladio managed to laugh, though there was nothing but bitterness in his words. What else could he say? What else could anyone say?

Noctis felt more like a deadweight at that moment than he had since Gladio had begun to climb. Gladio wished, just for a moment, that he could put the body of his king down. But where could he put him? There weren't any stairs. Not here. Not now.

They watched in silence as the Draconian deposited them at the foot of their alter, presenting them with gifts—the blood upon the floor was summoned and Gladio watched as it coalesced into a ring. It was a ring that Gladio watched kill King Regis. It was the Ring that had been left between Ignis and Noctis's hands in Altissia. It was the ring Noctis had used to summon the endless abyss.  

It was the Ring Gladio woke screaming after seeing in every nightmare since the sun set for the last time.

Bahamut was not done, for with blood comes bone.

With bone comes steel.

It was the simplest of the Armiger, a sword Gladio had joking called a toothpick. It lacked ornamentation except for the single wing of Bahamut against the pommel, and was the first weapon they had gathered. It was the first weapon they had gathered after the fall of Insomnia, the first realization that it was real, that King Regis was dead.

That his father was dead.

Gladio closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again to watch as the Trident of the Oracle morphed from the other piece of bone. The woman did not bother to accept it with open hands, and Bahamut simply dropped it at her feet.

The moment was done, and so were they.

Gladio felt as though an eternity passed before the clearing and the burning city faded back into the steps, and he regained control over himself just in time to duck as an all-too familiar sword nearly collided with his throat.

Gladio knew that it was his duty to protect Noctis's body, but he was dead and Gladio was alive, and the only way that they could fix Noctis was if Gladio kept breathing. Still, dropping him to the ground, hearing that deafening thud as Noctis's body crumpled to the floor—it was almost more than Gladio could bear. 

But he had to bear it. He had to bear it because the Sword of the Wise, the sword he had seen created from the bone of an unknown victim of Solheim, was poised and ready for battle. 

So too was the King who had wielded it.

Gladio rolled out of the way as the blade and the familiar sensation of warping filled the air. He managed to slide a little down the ramp, enough for him to get his weapon from its holster on his back. He was just quick enough to dislodge his sword and pull up his shield to defend from the next blow. 

Ignis was quicker than Gladio was, already having dived down to Noctis. Ignis managed to roll his body down far enough from the battle, though Gladio knew that he would need to push the Wise King up the steps rather than down.

"Prompto—cover! Switch with Iggy."

Prompto would have to be the one to keep company with Noctis while the battle raged. He was a distance fighter and would do better the further he was. Ignis and Gladio would have to manage their fighting up close and personal.

This was child's play for Gladio—the way the King fought was clumsy, almost untrained. There was a bareness to his movements that spoke of inexperience. It spoke of a man who had been forced to become a king to a land he had not wanted, a king that was made, rather than born.

Gladio parried two quick strikes, thankful for the years of service to the Crown. He had trained rookies who were better with their swords. That didn't mean he wasn't dangerous, though. Gladio knew better than to think that.

Swipe, parry, counter. The clash of blades sent a rush through Gladio's body as he swung his sword. Even though it was just a staircase, there was enough room to move, enough room to swing.

Ignis, however, wasn't doing as well. He only barely managed to avoid a rather clumsy thrust.

"What're you doing—be careful!"

"I bloody well am!" Ignis countered, though Gladio could already see the composure melting from the man's face. One of his daggers was embedded in the nearby wall, the other held tightly between his fingers. 

"What's up with you?" Gladio grunted as his sword let out a high-pitched screech. Ignis was the best godsdamned hunter. The man could hit a fly with his dagger blindfolded—

Gladio dodged the Sword of the Wise again, managing to get a good hit to the back of the King's armor.

"Then close your eyes," Gladio retorted as he dropped down into a crouch, allowing Prompto to get in a volley of bullets as Gladio adjusted his grip. "Do what you got to do—"

It was more than that, though. Gladio could see it written across Ignis's face. It wasn't fear of battle, and it wasn't just the senses of his newly-returned sight. There was something else.

There had to be something else. 

It only clicked when Gladio stood up and tried to push his sword back into the Armiger.

In the years of darkness, Ignis had relearned how to fight with his blindness. The armiger had been the blessing for him, the way to pull back his daggers with perfect precision. It didn't matter where he swung his blades as long as they came back to him once they met their mark.

But throwing daggers was less simple when they did not return to his hands. 

"Remember when you started learning?"

Gladio knew that talking during fighting wasn't Ignis's favorite thing to do, but he knew that the foundation beneath Ignis's feet was crumbling, and though he knew he could take down the Wise King on his own with the assistance of Prompto, that wouldn't help Ignis.

"What was the rule Monica taught you? The first one?"

It was the same rule Clarus had taught Gladio when he picked up his first training sword. 

"Don't let go."

Gladio gave Ignis a single nod. "Then don't let go."

 

* * *

 

When the first King of Yore fell, it was to a sight that Ignis would have happily have blinded himself never to have to see again.

Gladio had managed to deliver the final blow, slamming his sword straight through the metal chestplate of the first king. There was no sound as the soul, or what Ignis assumed was the soul, left the body in a pale shock of blue across the stones. The metal armor did not fall, did not shatter, did not fall into pieces. It simply disappeared. 

The Sword of the Wise, however, did not disappear. 

"Guys! Guys!"

Prompto's screams made Ignis turn, but what he saw made bile push straight up his throat. Despite the need to vomit, Ignis could not look away from the sight before him. No matter how much he wanted to, Ignis could only stare in abject horror.

Noctis's body floated before them as the Sword of the Wise made its way towards him. It was the same macabre scene they had seen all those years ago when Cor had called them to the Tomb of the Wise. Only this time, when the sword slid into Noctis's skin, it was very much steel.

It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did, watching the sword that had once been an extension of Noctis make its way through dead flesh. He shouldn't have screamed, he shouldn't have ran. Noctis was dead and his body was already broken, already battered and destroyed. Another wound would mean nothing because Noctis was already dead. And yet—

Ignis fell at Noctis's feet, staring up in slack jawed horror as the sword made one final squelch before disappearing in the pale blue light of the Crystal's magic.

Prompto was the one to catch Noctis before his body fell, but Noctis was still dead. 

Ignis dropped his dagger and emptied his stomach on the stair next to him, letting out a sob. Was that what it had been like when Ignis pulled the Sword of the Father from Noctis's stomach? He could feel the blood on his hands, seeping into his skin, and Ignis choked out a sob as he rubbed his palms against the stones below. 

"C—check him, Prompto. Check the wound."

"Which one?" Prompto mumbled. 

Ignis had to stop himself from snorting, instead staring at the swirls of vomit making their way towards the step below.

"Upper... Upper stomach. Se—second button down."

"Should I... put my fingers..."

Ignis closed his eyes and breathed through his open mouth. He knew that he had to pull himself together, because this was life and death for Noctis. It was their only change, and Ignis could break once they had completed their goal. Losing his head in battle—had he forgotten the last ten years? The ten years of training after losing his sight? 

Ignis shook his head. Losing his sight—he had given up his sight. He had sacrificed his sight, and for what? A dead king?

He would have given everything to have kept Noctis safe, but Noctis was dead and he was alive, and now Ignis could  _ see  _ just what his sacrifice had bought for his dearest friend.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

"I think... I think it's gone."

Ignis lifted his head and slowly opened his eyes. Gladio and Prompto were next to Noctis, examining the holes in Noctis—the holes that the Kings of the Lucii had put into their Sacrificial King.

Unlucky, indeed. 

"Ignis, we think it's gone. The wound, it's not there anymore."

"Ah. That. Yes. It must have  _ slipped _ my mind. Apologies; I am sure that must have been quite traumatizing. No matter—I assure you that your King felt nothing at all. He is still quite... deceased."

Ignis was at his feet in an instant, his dagger in a death-grip in his right hand. However, Ignis was sure, he could have killed that monster with just his bare hands wrapped around the man's throat if he tried hard enough.

"Oh, calm yourself before you act the fool—my face may have changed, but it is to merely tell a story. And  _ oh _ , how I love to tell stories. You must forgive me. It has been  _ so long  _ since I have had company, and if you plan to climb the next hundred and twelve floors, then at least allow me the pleasure of a good time. After all, I will be relinquishing your living and breathing friend back into your care when I am finished. It is the least you can do for  _ me. _ "

Ardyn Izunia smiled up at Ignis before bending his neck with a bow and removing his hat with a flourish. "Consider me your humble servant while I tell you the story of the Accursed and the Founder King. I assure you, it is quite the treat."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what did you think? Let me know?

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think. I am quite nervous about this story, as it is one of the few non-romance stories that I have written.
> 
> Thank you so much, and I hope I didn't disappoint you!


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